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User blog:KateStrange/For the Dead (BoW Reflection Part 2)
The first thing I do, together with Alejandra, is to retrieve the body of the Reverend Mother. I have been unusually conservative with my shapechanging, relying so heavily during the battle upon my wands and the use of my hands. It is a relatively easy task now to become earthen, to slip through the rubble of the collapsed tower until I find her, to carefully work our way back up to waiting hands. The Pathfinders discuss bringing her back in a new and younger body, but her spirit insists that she must not suddenly become younger than her husband and children. In the end, Alejandra sings her awake. Then I look to my own. Alyenna, clever at using cover, has escaped with only minor wounds. Rahzer'ok, too, is well and in good spirits. Terminus survives, though not all of the initiates from Ravenswood have been so lucky. Goshan I find injured but on his feet. He tells me that Hanz and Kretor have fallen. I think of the Knights lost before we found them in the swamp and ask Goshan to help me find them. We steal them away from the dead without much difficulty. Someone stumbles across Wutog leaning as if asleep against the Wall, done in by wounds that we could have mended had he not been too stubborn to ask for help. The Pathfinders commit him, too, to my care. I gather the necessary oils and herbs and collapse into a deep sleep. It is a very strange thing to raise the dead. The anoint the cold flesh of a friend with oil. To trace the outline of a humanoid frame in bone and muscle and to see the chest, still slowly shedding bits of root, begin to rise and fall. Witnessing the resurrection of Ned and the Reverend Mother was a little like watching a strong healing spell. Major wounds close and colour returns. This reincarnation is almost a raw act of creation. When Wutog's new body sharpens into the shape of an elven woman, I am reminded of the edge to this poorly controlled power. What if Kretor, married, suddenly found his gender reversed? But he and Hanz are luckier, find themselves in bodies more similar to their old ones. It is only as the casualties are counted that the full impact of the situation becomes clear. Many are simply wounded. Many we can save, the Church of Yoma, the Doctor, Alejandra and I. But hundreds more are dead. I remember the funeral traditions of my family. Spiced wine, bitter, but with a spoon of honey “for the memories.” Stories and songs at the fire. Cremation. Ashes. Gathering around the family – parents, spouse, siblings, children – because no one should be alone. “We do what we can for the living,” my mother says, “Because we can do nothing for the dead.” But that's not true anymore. Wutog, Hanz, and Kretor are proof of that. Yet I cannot save all of them. Already much powerful magic has been let loose over this town. To call back so many souls would upset the natural balance beyond recovery. Besides, there is not enough time, not enough of the sacred oils. I must choose only a few, have chosen them. And now every time I look into the face of a grieving mother or brother or child, I remember that I could fix this. Do what we can for the living. Treat the wounded. Forget the dead. My mind keeps coming back to Joshua Curry. We shot him, accused him of being a spy, two days before the battle. And yet he insisted on being patched up and sent out to fight. He died for it. And I know I was willing to do the same, but in the back of my mind I knew that with the scrolls in the Pathfinders' vault, I would probably be brought back. Joshua didn't have that. One thousand people stood on that Wall knowing that if they fell, they would not wake up. Tend to the wounded. Find the widows, the orphans, let them know that they will be cared for, that they are not alone. Fill in the pit in front of the gate. Untwist and tear down the siege engines. Wood and iron for the homes that were damaged. Prepare the ground for the diplomatic recognition of the Firewalkers. Brew potions for the surviving Gullykin hunters. Help with Dr. Haiduc's new clinic. Express sorrow. Express hope. Fall asleep where I stand. Wake briefly in the new winter cold, grow a coat of fur and four legs before drifting off again. Goshan is such a comfort. Always there, always eager. Perhaps too eager. With so many in need of a healer and an ear, do I have the right to dally with him? I ask Terminus. He says “The way of the druid is to live life, not to remove oneself from it.” Perhaps I can keep Goshan, if he will stay with a woman who will always have other duties to tend to. A circle, a town. Do what we can for the living. I cannot Scry the Arch-Druid of Ravenswood. I don't know why. Spiced wine and a song, a spoonful of honey. Ashes. I cannot forget the dead. Category:Blog posts Category:Reflection